


Snowbound

by Candymacaron



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bird Merlin, Birds, Feels, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Pining, Snow and Ice, Summer Pornathon 2015, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/pseuds/Candymacaron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A young man appeared hidden under a thin veil of powder. His cheeks were frost-burned, his hair black as ravens. Arthur had never seen anyone so beautiful."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my darling [Detochkina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina) for the awesome beta. <3
> 
> All errors are all mine. written for Merlin Summer Pornathon 2015, challenge #3, "Tropesmash"

A fortnight had passed since Arthur swore his vows and took up his father’s mantle, and already gossip piggybacked on the peasant’s tongues.

“Kanen’s raiders stalk the borderland of Ealdor, seeding the earth with bone,” they murmured.

***

Arthur selected twenty of his knights, commanding their horses into spear-straight lines.

They rode through thicket and forest in search of the raiders, along the knife-edge of sleep.

On the twelfth night the skeletal timbers of Ealdor broke into view. Arthur’s men wove through its gutted frame, their horses whinnying at the stench.

A single dwelling had been spared.

Arthur paused at the entrance. Something squealed inside.

Dried herbs dangled from the walls. Broken pottery and trampled provisions littered the earthen floor, crackling under their footfall.

A woman lay belly-up on a mattress, her gut weeping crimson into the straw, milky eyes open to a world she could no longer see.

“Have you seen the strange markings on these pots?” Leon asked, brushing the crockery aside with his sword. “This is the home of a sorceress.”

Arthur closed the woman’s eyes, shrouding her corpse with his cape.

“Regardless, she deserves a proper burial,” he said.

Entangled in a net at the corner of the room shrieked a merlin; wings writhing like sails in a squall. Arthur knelt beside it. He placed a steady hand at its breast.

As a youth he’d kept a goshawk found on a hunt, broken legged but mended under his care. This bird was equally handsome.

“Come now,” Arthur cooed, stroking his fingers through the bird’s plumage. “I’m only trying to help.”

Yanking his dagger from his belt, he sliced open the net. The Merlin cried out, rewarding Arthur with a nip before flying off.

It perched up in the rafters, watching him like a gargoyle.

“Little brat,” he teased, sucking his bloody thumb into his mouth. “Head southeast, if you know what’s good for you.”

***

The graves were not handsome, but they were solid and built of the men’s finest efforts.

Arthur recited the eulogy.

As the last reverence fell from his lips the branches of an oak tree swayed above him, sighing as a merlin took flight.

***

Winter came.

It crept stealthily onto their cloaks and into their gloves. It froze wefts through their mail and out their boots, wracking their bodies with shivers.

The snow bound their eyelashes. It kissed their cheeks as it gagged their mouths, forcing them to stop mid-march and make camp.

***

Taking a piss beside the common tent, a glint in the sky caught Arthur’s eye; a bird, spiralling from the air as if thrown from heaven itself.

Tucking himself into his smalls, he trudged through snowdrifts towards a fresh crater.

Arthur shovelled a handful of ice, and then another.

A young man appeared hidden under a thin veil of powder. His cheeks were frost-burned, his hair black as ravens.

Arthur had never seen anyone so beautiful.

***

Arthur stumbled into the tent, cradling the semi-conscious foundling.

All eyes snapped upon him, the gaze of the knights sharper than the swords they carried.

The stranger groaned.

Leon took one look at Arthur and shook his head.

“I won’t let him die,” Arthur sputtered.

“Then he’ll need to be warmed,” said Leon.

***

Arthur shrugged off his mail, shucked his tunic, and divested his breeches.

The young man was lean, and pale as birch. He was so frigid that each laboured breath rattling his ribs seemed a miracle.

Arthur couldn’t say why the stranger’s life was of importance, and yet the thought of losing him to death was unacceptable.

He slid under the pile of furs, cradling the young man to his chest. For hours Arthur rubbed his hands over his cool flesh, willing him back to life with a steady rhythm of friction.

Soft hair dusted the man’s inner thighs. Arthur felt the velvet of his cock slide against his hip, hearing a slight hitch in his own voice as their bollocks grazed. Moulding his hands over smooth swells of buttocks, Arthur watched his foundling come alive under his touch.

This man wasn’t bedded for his pleasure, Arthur reminded himself. He mustn't confuse survival with lust.

The man’s teeth clacked. His body arched, lashes fluttering open as he came too.

He stared through Arthur, gasping.

“It’s all right,” Arthur cooed, stroking his fingers over the frightened man's cheek. “You’re safe.”

The man’s lips parted, his face surrendering deeper into Arthur’s palm.

And then the bastard bit him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The young man spat the cloth from his mouth like a bitter taste. He rubbed the bindings at his wrists together, propping himself up with his elbow to sit up on the pallet."

Blood trickled down Arthur’s fingers. It rolled past his elbow, dripping to the earth as he raised his hand and said, “Sheath your weapons! That’s an order!”

The Camelot guard obeyed. They’d burst into the royal tent upon hearing the King's shouts, circling the foundling within a crescent of lethal steel.

Crouched in the corner, the young man cowered—naked—his lips stained wine-red with blood.

Leon moved to speak, and Arthur pulled the furs over himself, silencing his second in command with snarled order. The foundling had attacked, and though Arthur suspected that the bite was born of fear, the mood in his inner rank was tense.

Their king was vulnerable, injured, and taken by surprise. As a commander, Arthur couldn’t risk showing further weakness.

Arthur threw on the cape and fastened the breeches Leon had gathered for him, relishing the warm wool. He took a step forward. The guard stiffened, but the foundling didn’t. His eyes focused solely on Arthur; glistening molten gold in the lamplight.

Arthur drew a sharp breath, massaging his bloody hand.

To his guard, he said, “Bind him. Now.”

***

A hearth fire crackled within the tent, illuminating the night and melting the tension from Arthur’s bones. Arthur sat in his chair, bandaged thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. Outside, the snow fell in blankets. The wind undulated the canvas walls, a constant reminder of the camps entrapment.

Gwaine and Leon guarded the foundling, who lay on a straw pallet, his thin limbs double-bound like a captured boar.

“Remove our guest’s gag,” Arthur said. “I believe he’s learned his lesson.”

Gwaine unsheathed a dagger from his hip, slitting the gag at the back with a grunt.

“It was for your own good,” he told the stranger. “We’re all starving, but you don’t see us committing regicide by cannibalism.”

The young man spat the cloth from his mouth like a bitter taste. He rubbed the bindings on his wrists together, propping himself up with his elbow to sit on the pallet.

Arthur stood. “Are you hungry?” he asked. On his table sat a warm flask of ale and a day's rations, both untouched.

The foundling didn’t answer. He furrowed his brow as Arthur carried the ale and platter towards him.

Leon and Gwaine retreated, leaving Arthur to sit cross-legged beside the stranger. His time in the wilds had given him the bluish-hue of a dying man, but for now, Arthur was content to see his foundling both suspicious and alert.

“My name is Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot,” Arthur said. “I came across you in the blizzard, left for dead. Tell me, how did you come to this remote place?”

The foundling said not a word.

Meeting his eyes, Arthur pried the stale bread on the platter apart. The stranger’s stomach growled as Arthur dipped half of it into the ale, malted yeast softening the hard crust.

He raised the bread to the stranger’s mouth, with the very hand that he’d bitten, and said in a low voice, “Eat.”

Gwaine snickered. Leon looked at Arthur like he was attempting to suckle a wolf.

The stranger only flinched, turning from the meal as if Arthur meant to strike him.

The man’s distrust hurt Arthur more than his bite had. He put down the bread.

“I have warmed you, cared for you, and I spared your life when you attacked me. Why would I harm you now?” Arthur asked.

The stranger sat with his knees up, gazing intently at Arthur. He was clothed in a squire's tunic and breeches, the shabby garments failing to hide the ethereal cast of his features.

It was then Arthur noticed the leather string dangling at his chest, a necklace, adorned with a single grey-white feather.

“What is this?” he asked. Arthur reached to pick it up, until the pain in his hand reminded him better of it.

“I found it last night in the snow-ditch,” Gwaine answered. “I figured it belonged to him.”

Arthur nodded, enamored by the talisman. “That’s a merlin feather, isn’t it?” he asked.

The man’s blue eye’s widened. He didn’t reply.

Arthur cleared his throat and tried again.

“Whatever kingdom you hail from, I promise that no harm will come to you in this camp. Tell me, do you… have a name?”

The stranger's face flushed, his expression softening. He didn’t answer but raised his bound hands, caging his fingers protectively over feather resting at his heart.

Arthur thought of the bird he’d spotted in the blizzard, plunging from the sky like stardust. He remembered the merlin of Ealdor, trapped in the net, and the precious hawk of his childhood, broken, but mended by his own to two hands.

Judging by his bite, this stranger held a similar beauty and stubbornness within him—a need to be tamed.

Arthur smiled at the comparison. Even as a youth, he never could back down from a challenge.

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “That’s what I’m going to call you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Arthur watched Merlin turn on his side, his left eye cracked in feigned sleep. Wherever Arthur walked, Merlin’s pupil trained to his movement."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies my dears for the wait. This year has been a sucker punch to the face, and after a five-month hiatus, I'm trying to remember how to write again (and how to breath). Little by little.
> 
> Please be gentle. More to come.
> 
> No beta. 800 word max per chapter. All mistakes are, as always, mine.

At daybreak, Sir Gwaine poked his head into the royal tent, mail clinking merrily as he walked.

“The sky’s stopped pissing on us, Princess,” he said. “Snow’s high as hell, but it’ll be smooth travel west to Camelot if the weather holds.”

“Southeast,” Arthur replied. “We ride not to Camelot, but to Merendra.”

“Into the forest?” asked Gwaine. “This time of year?”

Arthur nodded. He welcomed him inside, offering Gwaine his only chair and scraps of his pitiful morning rations.

Gwaine took them gladly.

“Raiders were sighted nearby, and I don’t intend to let that weasel Kanen hide within Cenred’s territory,” continued Arthur. “We’ll leave our heraldry and form a plain-clothed party before riding into the village of Engerd, to re-supply.”

“Sneaking under King Cenred's nose? Sounds dangerous,” Gwaine said, licking crumbs off of his palm. “Count me in.”

Arthur laughed, the exhalation dragon’s breath in the chilled air. He clapped a firm hand onto Gwaine's shoulder, flinching as the wound on his finger throbbed, reminding Arthur of its maker.

“Good man. Now that you’re fed, see to Merlin’s rations. It would please me to see him eating something other than me.”

Merlin lay on his pallet; buried under a hill of colourful furs. His wrists had been re-bound in front of him with rope, hands clasped upward, as if in prayer.

Arthur watched Merlin turn on his side, his left eye cracked in feigned sleep. Wherever Arthur walked, Merlin’s pupil trained to his movement.

Arthur threw on a wolf-skin cape and his warmest boots. He closed his dressing trunk, fastening the iron latches tight.

_ The knights would be pleased by this good turn of fortune _ , thought Arthur. If the sun held and their moral remained steady, Engerd would provide full bellies and warm hearth fire by sunset.

***

Snow lay on the ground, thick as cream. Virgin.

The sky was clear and cloudless.

Arthur sniffed at the crisp clean air, relishing the taste of it on his tongue.

It boded well for travel.

Sir Leon was in the common tent when Arthur arrived, elbow deep in parchment inventory reports. As he parlayed orders, Arthur conversed with Leon’s squire, delegating the duties of camp dismemberment.

“What do you intend to do with the foundling when we break camp, sire?” Leon asked.

“Merlin, you mean?” Arthur said.

Leon licked the tip of his quill, before drowning it in a pot of ink.

“If you’ve named him, I presume you intend to keep him.”

Arthur flushed.

It was Leon who had crumpled to the ground of the armory twelve years ago, floored by King Uther’s backhanded blow.

Leon’s teeth had seeded the stonework like bloodied pearls, Arthur shielding his friend; taking sole blame for what Uther had witnessed.

As a boy, Arthur would lay awake in his chambers at night, remembering the crush of Leon’s lips locked on his.

The kiss had felt so right before it all went wrong.

They never spoke of it, never hungered for more, but an understanding had blossomed between them—solidarity strong as brotherhood.

“There’s something about Merlin, Leon. I can’t put my finger on it,” Arthur said. “He could be useful, if we get him to speak. He survived that long in the wilds, so he must know the local terrain.”

Leon shook his head with a rueful smile.

If he thought his king a fool, he didn’t voice it.

 

***

Arthur pulled back the flap to his tent, finding Gwaine slumped in the chair, chin tucked into his chest.

“Gwaine?” Arthur said.

Gwaine rubbed his eyes. He stretched his long legs, grinning sheepishly.

“Back so soon, Princess?” he yawned. “Your bandages are on the table.”

“Bandages?”

Gwaine fixed Arthur a queer look.

“The bandages. The ones you begged me to fetch, as if I was your pageboy.”

“What are you on about?” Arthur sighed. “I haven’t asked you to fetch any bandages, I spent the entire morning with Leon.”

“No—you were just here.”

“I most certainly wasn’t.”

“Look, Arthur,” Gwaine replied, his voice stern. “I left to get Merlin his rations like you asked, and when I came back you were sitting right there.”

Gwaine pointed to Arthur’s bed.

The covers were rumpled. Beside it, Arthur’s dressing chest hung off its hinges, his best tunics littering the damp earth. But that wasn’t what distressed him.

At the foot of the bed, Merlin’s pallet was empty.

“Gwaine,” Arthur grit. “Where is  _ Merlin?” _

“You told me that you’d sent Merlin into the common tent with Leon, then you begged me to cross camp and bring bandages! Arthur,  _ don’t you remember? _ ”

The common tent? But he was just...

_ Merlin. _

Arthur took a deep breath; the room felt cavernous and suddenly barren of light.

He bolted to Merlin’s pallet and dug through the furs, flinging them across the room.

Stashed underneath a pelt lay Merlin’s crumpled tunic, breeches, and empty bindings that stared at Arthur like an accusation.

The rope was chewed through—as if by an animal.

***

Armour tight and swords at the ready, Gwaine and Arthur circled the tent like hunting dogs chasing their tails.

However far they looked into the barren landscape, the snow surrounding them lay untouched.

The only footsteps in the sunken powder were theirs.


End file.
